Perfectly Normal
by BambaSavedMyBaby
Summary: Petunia Dursley is perfectly normal, thank you very much.


**Author's Note:**

 **I've always been oddly fascinated with the character of Petunia. I believe that, much like Dumbledore or Snape, there is more to her than appears in canon. I don't condone the way she treated Harry, of course – but I have a hard time thinking of her as a purely cruel person.**

 **That being said, this is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I hope you like it. I don't expect much from this story (Petunia isn't much of a fan favorite) but would love reviews, constructive criticism, et cetera. I'd be happy to answer any questions you have as well and I do take requests.**

 **I don't own any part of the Harry Potter franchise. That honor goes to Queen Jo.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **basilhayden**

Petunia Dursley is perfectly normal, thank you very much.

Every morning, she cooks a hearty breakfast and picks at her plate, sips bitter black coffee and listens to her husband gripe. Every morning, she wakes her son and nephew and feeds them their breakfast. Every morning, she sees her husband off to work with a kiss on the cheek.

Every morning she is left alone, her only company the insensate cooing of toddlers and her own thoughts.

"Freak!" she sneers, slapping the buttercup from her sister's hand. It ceases its dance and falls to the grass below.

Lily's lip is trembling the way it does when she's close to crying. Petunia clenches her fist and turns away, stalking farther down the river.

She sits heavily on its banks, staring blankly ahead as her eyes fill with tears. In the distance, she can hear her sister talking with someone. Petunia sniffs, and roughly rips another wildflower from the ground. The petals are browned and wilted. She stares at it and concentrates, willing it to do something, anything.

The flower remains still. She crushes it, and the pollen stains her hand yellow.

"You have a family?"

They've been engaged for a month, and it's the first time Vernon has asked her anything personal. Petunia stares blankly through the windshield at the fluorescent lights of the chip shop. Her battered sausage grows cold between her hands. She hadn't wanted to eat it anyway.

"My father lives in Cokeworth. Mother died last year."

"Right shame, that."

Petunia nods and straightens in her seat. Several minutes pass in silence. She watches the people filtering in and out the chip shop. It's like a silent movie. They don't seem real. Nothing does anymore.

"I've a sister as well."

"Hmm," he doesn't sound interested. There's a long silence.

"Vernon, promise you won't hold this against me." Her words are flat and breathy. She squeezes her eyes shut. "She's not like us."

"Eh? She one of those Labour nuts?"

"That's not what I meant. She's a… a witch, wands and broomsticks and everything. She goes to some magical boarding school."

Vernon falls silent. Petunia clenches her fists until her nails slice her palms. She can see her pinched, papery reflection in the windshield.

"You having me on?" he growls, staring at her.

"I'd never." In the chip shop, a young man leans across a table to kiss his girlfriend. Their faces crinkle in joy. Petunia can almost hear them giggling.

"Well," Vernon mutters. "Everyone's got a freak in the family. But you're normal, right?"

"Completely." She crosses her arms against a sudden chill. Her voice is a whisper.

"Good. You going to eat that or what?"

She is thirteen and it is Christmas, and Lily has given her a mood ring that truly mirrors your innermost feelings.

"I knew you'd love it!" she squeals. "I saw it at Zonko's and just had to but it for you! It was only a sickle, can you believe? And it's just like muggle ones except so much better. Try it on!"

Petunia doesn't understand much of what Lily tells her these days. She slips the ring onto her finger and flinches as it magically resizes. The colors fluctuate wildly before settling.

Lily squints at the ring and consults the corresponding mood chart. Her grin slips.

"Oh, Tuney…" Petunia looks at their parents – Mother admiring her new temperature controlled mug, Father testing out his unsmudgeable ink. The wool scarf and shell earrings lay forgotten on the end table.

Petunia runs upstairs and doesn't return until dinner.

The final word Petunia ever receives from Lily is the birth announcement containing a magical photograph. Tiny images of Lily and James laugh in matching looks of pure joy, the new baby clutched tight between them. His name is Harry.

Petunia cannot bring herself to dispose of the photo, so she hides it in the trunk of her childhood things where Vernon will never look. She swears this will be the last she thinks of Lily.

And yet, when Christmas comes along, she sends her sister a package anyway. It's a vase. It's something normal that breaks when you let it fall.

"Mummy, I picked you flowers!"

Petunia is lying curled on the couch. Her blank gaze wanders from the television to the boy in front of her. It is not Dudley, but Harry. He is thrusting a fistful of crumpled yellow wildflowers in her face, his smile dumb and sincere. He is five years old.

She opens and closes her mouth several times before she finds her voice. It's wispy and hollow. "Don't – don't call me that."

Harry pouts. "Don't you like the flowers, Mummy?"

"I'm not your mummy!" she screeches. The outburst surprises them both and they stare at one another for a second. Harry has Lily's exact eyes. It makes Petunia quake.

The child releases his bouquet and flees the room. Petunia buries her face into the cushion and sobs. Out the corner of her eye, she sees the flowers on the carpet. They're buttercups.

Petunia stows her memories in the deepest recess of the attic. Her new house is grey and quiet and perfectly ordinary in every way. It is everything she ever claimed to want. Here, she can pretend magic never existed. She unlatches the small trunk and cards carefully through its contents until she finds what she wants.

It has been two and a half decades, but the enchantment has not faded, and the ring resizes itself perfectly around her shaking finger. She leans backward and strokes the glassy surface.

It's dark in the attic. She cannot tell what color it turns.


End file.
